Prologue

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Juliet

December

The pub is a kaleidoscopic blur as I spin, arms up, whiskey glass in hand. Warm golden light winks off the crowd’s sweat-soaked skin. Stained-glass sconces bathe the room in a hazy rainbow glow. The lead singer’s shiny red guitar, the drummer’s ringing cymbal, flash beneath the lights as the cover band’s music pounds through my body.

I hadn’t planned on getting myself squished into a throng of dancing, headbanging people. I was just going to pop in for a drink, then slink back to the Scottish cottage I’ve been hiding in since I flew across the Atlantic last week, desperate for an escape from my blown-up life back home—a reward for finally getting my butt in the shower, dressed in something besides pajamas, and out of the house.

But as soon as I opened the door, the quaint, adorable pub drew me in, and I told myself maybe I’d linger a little, soak up the ambience. Then the cover band kicked off The Proclaimers’ iconic “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” right after I threw back my first whiskey and the bartender silently slid another one my way.

A sign from the universe. Stay, just a little longer.

That song’s still playing, the small crowd’s enjoyment of it contagious, everything in the pub dialed up to a ten of color and vitality; loud, happy music that elbows my heartbreak to the edges of my thoughts. For three and a half glorious minutes, I dance and sing, and for the first time since everything went to hell, I actually believe what my sisters, my friends, my parents, keep telling me—that I’m going to be okay, that one day I will be healed from the hurt of realizing the man I’d been planning to marry was a manipulative abuser.

But then the song ends, its joy draining from me as quickly as the music fades from the room, before something terrible takes its place.

A love song.

Groaning, I knock back the rest of my whiskey. Everyone starts to pair off. Arms curled around waists, draped over shoulders. Soft laughs and long kisses. I turn, trying to find a crack in the crowd, a path to slip through and escape, but I’m locked in. Could this moment get any worse?

Despite trying to block out the words, this new song’s lyrics sink into my brain. Aaand there’s my answer—this could get worse, because it’s not just a love song. It’s a sad one.

“Dammit,” I mutter as I spin around, determined to try my luck at escaping through the couples surrounding me to my other side.

“Oof.” I bump into a very hard chest and startle, not just from our collision but from the feel of soft flannel plaid beneath my palms, the faint scent of clean, herby soap.

Slowly, my gaze drifts up, up, still up…My mouth falls open.

Standing before me is a very tall, very striking man. I stare at him, stunned.

The man stares right back. Wide, catlike sage eyes flecked with silver. Long, straight nose, two sharp cheekbones. The rest is a mystery, hidden beneath a thick beard and hair that spills to his shoulders in soft waves.

My brain’s all over the place—the wedge of pale, freckled skin at his throat revealed by his open shirt collar; the clean, herby scent clinging to him—but finally it settles on the most important detail: his hair. His gorgeous hair. The color, burnished-penny copper in shadow, golden bronze where it catches the pub lights’ candle-like glow.

I curl my hands into fists until my nails press crescents into my palms. He looks like a Highlander romance hero ripped out of the past and wrapped in modern clothes.

Highlander romances are my weakness.

As are redheads.

Slowly, he holds out one hand, an unspoken invitation that I’d swear I hear, crystal clear, in my head. Dance with me?

My heart takes off in my chest, nerves coursing through me. A romance novel junkie, a seasoned matchmaker, a veteran flirt, I’m used to cruising through these moments. But since ending my relationship with my ex, recognizing how I’d built him up in my head through those rosy romantic lenses instead of seeing him for who he really was, I’ve lost my confidence in this. I doubt myself.

Heart thumping, flustered, I take a step toward him. But instead of taking his hand, I give him my whiskey glass. Maybe I’m testing him. Maybe I’m testing myself.

His mouth lifts the tiniest bit at the corner—a whisper of a smile?—as he takes the glass, reaching easily with one long arm around a couple to set it on the bar. Then he simply steps just a little closer, hand outstretched again.

My heart thumps in my chest.

This was not the plan , a nervous voice whispers in the back of my head. The plan was baby steps. The plan was to stop hiding in the cottage, inhaling shortbread and rewatching Fleabag . The plan was to get out, have a few drinks, then go home without incident.

Dancing with a handsome stranger who makes my heart fly definitely qualifies as an “incident.”

I tell my feet to walk away, my body to back off. But I don’t move an inch. I just stare up at him, at those wide sage-and-silver eyes holding mine. God, they’re lovely, framed by faint crinkles at the corners, like he spends life outside, his gaze narrowed against the sun.

“Would you…” His voice snaps me from my trance. My lashes flutter as I blink and sway a bit, the low, rich rumble of his voice a wave rocking me back. He clears his throat. “Would you…like to dance?”

As I process his words, I realize the similarity of his vowels to mine. “Wait.” I tip my head. “You’re American?”

He nods.

Well, there goes my Highlander fantasy. Which is honestly for the best.

His brow furrows as he searches my expression. “Something…wrong?”

“I just thought with the red hair and”—I gesture up and down his body, which looks as impressive as it feels, long-limbed, broad, filling out faded jeans and a deep green plaid flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows—“your build, and, well, the location, that there was a good chance you were local. I mean, you know…Scottish.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat and glances down at the ground. “No, I’m just visiting.”

“Me, too.”

Relief sweeps through me. We’re both only here by chance, in passing. What harm could there be in a dance with a handsome stranger I’ll never see again? That, I tell myself, hardly qualifies as an “incident.”

“Well, then, if your offer still stands,” I tell him, smiling wider than I have in weeks, since everything fell apart, “I’d love to dance.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, but his touch is warm and sure as he wraps his hand around mine, drawing me close. Our bodies connect, and heat races through me, everything that’s dimmed and dulled in my sadness the past month flickering awake.

Our chests brush, our hips. His hand curves gently around my waist and draws me close. My hand settles on his hard shoulder.

His gaze sweeps over my face, my hair, my eyes, my mouth, like it’s memorizing me.

A blush warms my cheeks.

I force out a slow, steadying breath. There’s no need to get romantic about this. In fact, there is every need not to get romantic about it, because this is where I get myself into trouble—my romance-novel-loving, pie-eyed optimist, foolishly hopeful heart stubbornly sees things the way I want them to be rather than the way they are . This is the mistake that cost me so much with my ex. It’s a mistake I’m not going to make again.

I need to burst this swoony bubble, shatter the magic of the moment.

“So.” I clear my throat.

He stares at my mouth intently. Then says quietly, “So.”

I narrow my eyes, playfully glaring up at him. “You’re supposed to help me out here, not just repeat what I said.”

He’s still staring at my mouth. Another wave of warmth floods my body.

“Not a big talker,” he admits. Deftly, he spins us, moving me safely out of the path of a dancing couple who’ve become very enthusiastic about kissing at the expense of their balance.

He peers my way again, his gaze settling first on my mouth, then on my eyes. He looks at me for so long, I feel every hair on my body stand on end.

“You’re staring at me,” I whisper.

He swallows audibly, his gaze fixed on mine. “Sorry. It’s…hard not to.”

My blush deepens, and I smile wider as I lean in, like a flower drawn toward the sun. I drink him in, his soft, clean scent; every stunning shade of his hair—cinnabar, russet, auburn—like a fire’s dancing flames.

“Well, I’ll just stare at you, too,” I tell him. “So, we’re even.”

He huffs a laugh that’s all air, soft as it gusts out of him. I catch a whiff of smoky whiskey on his breath that matches mine. It oddly comforts me, that we’re the same this way—two people alone for now, who’ve relied on a few whiskeys to get ourselves here.

“Who are you?” he asks, what sounds like wonder tingeing his voice. His fingertips circle the small of my back as he tucks me closer.

A daring thrill runs through me as I stare up at him, this handsome stranger, desire spilling warm and wistful through my veins. I think about how freeing this could be, to live a lie tonight. To be not a heartbroken Juliet but someone else, not even my old self, who I used to be, but someone new, someone better. Is it so bad to want a night indulging in the delectable pleasure of his gaze, his touch, his interest, without worrying about complications or consequences, a night to forget what I’ve been through?

“Viola,” I tell him.

It’s not a lie. My full name is Viola Juliet Wilmot. I was named for my paternal grandmother, Viola Wilmot, a spitfire of a woman whose presence was so formidable, the notion of my sharing her name as a little girl was laughable. By the time she’d passed away, I’d been Juliet or Jules for so long, it was the only name that felt right.

But tonight, I’m calling on my namesake, channeling my inner spitfire, reaching deep for bravery that, since the breakup, I’ve been worried I might have lost for good.

He studies me, repeating my name. “ Vi ola?”

“That’s it,” I tell him, tell myself. I am Viola tonight. Bold and brave.

As he peers down at me, a lock of fiery hair falls down his forehead, into his eyes. Eyes that watch me, curious, kind. It feels so natural, to reach up before he can and brush that hair back from his face. My fingertips hum at the sensation of his warm skin, his cool, silky hair. His eyes slip shut at my touch, like this feels as good for him as it does for me.

“And who are you ?” I ask quietly.

“Will,” he breathes, as I tuck his hair behind his ear and notice an earplug wedged in it. I’m inordinately delighted that it’s hot pink.

“Will,” I repeat. I find myself smiling as I look at him, putting the name to his face. It suits him.

His eyes slide open as my touch lingers in his hair, curved around his ear. His cheeks turn the same color as his earplugs.

“Does it bother you?” I ask him, tracing the shell of his ear. “The noise here?”

He stares at me for what feels like forever. A swallow works down his throat. Our dancing slows to the faintest sway. “Yes,” he finally says.

“I get it,” I tell him, smiling. “My sister has similar feelings about sound; well, for her it’s more complexity of sound than noise level, but…”

My voice dies off as I peer up at him.

Want to go somewhere quieter? I almost ask. But then I pin my lips between my teeth, biting back the words. Because this is all I’m allowing myself. A dance, then done.

“You have a sister?” he asks, snapping me from my thoughts.

I smile. “Two, actually. No brothers. What about you?”

“No brothers, either,” he says. “And four sisters.”

My smile deepens. “Four, wow! Hmm. I can totally see it. You have strong ‘brother of many sisters’ energy.”

Will’s mouth quirks again at the corner, like it did when he held out a hand for a dance and I gave him a whiskey glass instead. “?‘Brother of many sisters’ energy?” he repeats in that low, quiet rumble. “What does that mean?”

I bite my lip. My cheeks are hot. It’s impossible to explain what I meant, when I’ve just met him, only that there’s something so comfortingly gentle about him, even in all his imposing, intimidating physicality. He just feels like a man who grew up surrounded by women, who’s learned how to make them feel seen and safe.

I can’t tell him that. That’s not what you tell a hot stranger you’re just sharing a dance with.

“Forget I said it.” I grimace, scrunching my nose, self-conscious. “I talk too much when I drink whiskey!”

“I…” His grip tightens faintly on my waist. “I like how much you talk.”

My heart’s spinning like a top in my chest, butterflies swirling in my stomach. Our eyes hold as the music starts to soften, the refrain slowing. The song drawing to a close. Not so much a sign from the universe, but a reminder—this has to end.

“I should go,” I whisper.

I hate the words that just came out of my mouth. I hate that I know they’re right. I hate that I know I need to leave before he says another sweet thing, before I let myself get swept away.

I can’t stay here anymore, pretending to be someone who doesn’t have so much work ahead of her, acting like the woman I’m going to see in the mirror when I get back to my Airbnb cottage isn’t a messed-up Juliet who’s got a life to put back together, a heart to heal.

Will’s grip flexes on my waist, then travels slightly up my back. It’s so tender, so sweet. I lean into it, one last indulgence, before I press up on tiptoe and wrap my arms around his neck. A hug goodbye.

“Why?” he asks quietly against my cheek.

I hesitate a beat when his hands wrap around me. For a minute, we just stand there, locked in a lingering hug goodbye. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against his cheek.

As I sink down onto my heels, he holds my eyes, his hands’ grip softening on my waist.

Ae fond kiss and then we sever , the singer croons.

Our eyes hold as the lyrics hang in the air, a suggestion heavy between us.

My hands, curled around the nape of his neck, pull him closer. Will’s eyes hold mine as his hands curve back around my waist again and tuck me in tight. We don’t say a word, but I feel like, just how this began, we both know in some silent way what we want, what comes next, what the music’s spoken into this moment between us.

Holding his gaze, I press up on tiptoe again. His hands glide up my back, wrapping me close. I drift my hands from the silky tips of his hair, over the sharp curve of his jaw, beneath that thick beard, and cup his face. I press a tender kiss to his cheek, a sliver of smooth, freckled skin at the edge of his beard. “Goodbye,” I whisper.

I turn quickly, prepared to have to muscle my way through the crowd, but a path opens among the couples, like it’s been paved just for me, reminding me that now is not the time to meet someone, to want someone, to dance in their arms and daydream about staying there.

I slip through the crowd, then yank my coat off the hook and shoulder open the door, sending it banging against the outside wall. A rush of icy December air whips back my hair and cools my flushed face.

As I shrug on my coat, I start down the path, shivering against the wind, the aching pain pulsing through my joints that’s bothered me for months. All week, I’ve noticed the pain has felt harsher. I told myself it must be heartbreak’s ache, bleeding through my body.

But now, I’m not so sure.

I walk down the path, and my eyes drift up dreamily to the dark, star-studded sky. I replay those few moments with Will, my handsome stranger. And I smile. Because right now, even though I ache from head to toe, I don’t feel heartbroken at all.